


Host Means Nothing by Itself

by qeacock



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Sex, Walrider Miles Upshur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 07:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18545374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qeacock/pseuds/qeacock
Summary: "Yes, yes," he hisses down into the street below, his chest bracketing over the bars of the balcony, his knuckles red with blood that doesn't belong to him.He grinds his hips further forward still into static. It feels like his whole lower half bursts into the taste of metal, hotness dribbling down the front of his chest.Miles lets out a sneer.He did not think that he had any blood (still warm) left inside him, but the evidence paints the front of his chest, soaking through his shirt again, making him weak all over.(warnings in end notes)





	Host Means Nothing by Itself

His breath comes out chalky, the way breath always does when it's cold out and the chill comes up underneath shirts and runs its callouses along the grooves of skin, seeping, searching, smelling. He tastes blood in his mouth - he feels alive for a second when it seeps into his mouth and kisses him into his skin, like he'd been taking a smoke, on this balcony, that somehow sunk inside of him and became a part of him.

"Here?" Miles growls out, hands skidding over his fly. He feels dizzy with death. The swarm tastes like metal, the slick sheen that blood makes dribbling out of a bullet wound, smells like sweat and hard liquor. He puts his elbows on the railing, probing inside his body for their words. They are so unlike language - the raw, gritted edge of thought, pulled into a dead bloodstream, manifested as his own conscious. He tries the artery in the back of his knee. _Mine_ , filtered so precisely, making him lose his balance. It's such a subtlety that he almost doesn't recognise it - the sound of a remembered song playing two blocks across, in and then out, gone as soon as it comes. It's a phantom press that works all of his joints, strain across the front of his jeans.

"Yes, yes," he hisses down into the street below, his chest bracketing over the bars of the balcony, his knuckles red with blood that doesn't belong to him. He grinds his hips further forward still into static. It feels like his whole lower half bursts into the taste of metal, hotness dribbling down the front of his chest. Miles lets out a sneer. He did not think that he had any blood (still warm) left inside him, but the evidence paints the front of his chest, soaking through his shirt again, making him weak all over. 

" _Oh_ ," he sucks in a breath through the front of his teeth, falling to his knees, his eyes rolling back in his skull. Miles brings himself onto his back, spreading his thighs with his hands, the entire Colorado sky situated above his head. The same fever-hot metal sprays out of his fingers and he tips his head back and snickers (unsure which one of them is snickering). Are his lashes stuck together, or is it The Swarm, closing all the gaps, making him all whole?

"Close me," he chokes, like it means anything, blood spitting out of his veins, his lips, coming down his eyes. He's too tired to probe for it, now, but he hears it anyway, a slight twist at the first knots of his spine. _Opened_. A scratchy growl, barely there, blended in with the way his bones sound creaking. Something so like it he cannot tell the difference between reality and it.

"Ah, _God_ ," Miles knocks the back of his head into the ground, eyes lidded, his hips coming off the balcony, "so- fucking-"

The swarm is pressed inside every pore, fucking into him, this liquid metal soaking up his sweat, the death. His heart does not beat. It feels like he should pass straight through them. They have not taken so solid a form as they do now, pressed tight against his chest, faceless, their hips disappearing between his hips (arching and straining and widening, never wide enough). It's a phantom press that swipes inside him like a hook, gnarling a tight fissure of hot arousal all up his gut, deep enough that it comes up to his throat - this choking, fizzing, electric rod of hotness drawing every single point of tension to the way his cock hits his stomach.

 

"Yeah, yeah, fuck, _uhn_ ," he moans, opening his eyes, the swarm spilling out of his mouth like masses of tiny spiders, his fingers scrabbling over the floor. He realises belatedly that he cannot see. He's sliding his own hands down his waist - or is it them? (He cannot tell the difference.)  
There's this white hot mass that's pressing behind his face, quick and jerky like supernova, coiling - a cobra, tightening, constricting, bursting capillaries.

He lets sharp air cut out of his nose, a steam hiss winding out of his lungs, lets the ache in his thighs ground him. There's so much blackness where he should see static and how the blood trickles out of the holes on the front of his chest.

"Oh, okay, _okay_ , fucking- shit-" he gasps, drowning in the flood, the silt and the brine of them. He cannot breathe. 

One more swipe like a hook. Miles' legs are trembling. 

He bucks, stomach flush with the swarm.

Then, the swarm presses his hips down, and it's gone as soon as it came - the sound of a remembered song playing two blocks across.

"What? _What?_ " he says, quietly, his voice catching in his throat, wetness dripping down the front of his face. The world seems quiet when it is just the static howling. His heart does not beat.

_Close me._

Miles thinks that it's the first time he has heard a distinct voice, so separate from his own body. It's scratchy, slightly accented. 

It's _his_.

He laughs, hysterical, finally able to see, his cock drenched in his own blood. His whole stomach is in a thin sheen of it: the kind that turns sticky in seconds, that catches light in globs and sheets. And it's all spattering off of him and the jerky way he's laughing now, tipping his head back, his stubble scratching against the swarm's kiss, touch, bite. His voice breaks as they swallow themselves into his lungs, through his larynx, touching everywhere inside him.

He's sure, now, in the way that he was sure before Mount Massive. He's certain of what they mean. He understands so completely that, for a single sliver of a second, they are the same, cosmically aligned in perfect syzygy.

They fuck into him again. He gets the smell of rotting, burning a mile off, in the same vein that he knows the shitty Chinese restaurant three hundred miles from here is pouring out the rest of its lobster water down the back of the wall. Miles clutches at the ground, shutting his eyes. He feels like he's about to burst apart from every seam. It's right that such a huge feeling - this feeling of being completely fucked _raw_ \- is such a small, four letter word. By itself it means nothing.

(Just like host by itself means nothing.)

"G- _God_ ," he chokes on air, the tendons in his hand spasming, "don't stop, don't- _fffuck- fuck, yes._ "

The air feels explosive, volatile - it's as if one single, tiny movement can set off the spark that lights the molotov under his veins. It's worse to look and watch - this way it's harder to pretend he's not completely devoted to The Swarm. Miles is a million, thousand miles up shore, torn away on a rip current, and there is nothing - not a paddle not a _thing_ \- that can bring him off the coast line ride now.

They take their hips, roll them, pull slowly out of him. He moans, fully expecting, demanding what comes next - another, trembling hook, ripping him into the ocean. They're not going to- surely, he's gonna-

"No, no, no, _fuck! what?_ "

He's hollering. Hot tears are dripping out of his face. His hips are pressed so snugly down that he feels he might shatter if he takes a breath. Shivers run their racks down his arms, spasming down his back when he's completely empty, grasping around air. All his skin feels like it's boiling off of his muscles, hot and gritty all over.

 _Focus._ Left ear. _Be sure._ Right ear. It's coming out of his skull, bleeding into his flesh.

Then, there's a space in time where nothing happens. The sun doesn't come up. Sound is meaningless. Light stops completely. And Miles is staring into the face of the Walrider, every nerve in his body set on fire, a whisper's breadth from letting go.

"I'm sure," he rasps, his lids coming closed, inclining his head. He is certain.

Then it's all there, and he's being fucked into the ground again, howling, hot blood spilling out of every single pore on his skin, the holes in his ears, his dick, his fingernails, his nose, his mouth, his eyes.

He is being boiled alive.

Somehow, he still wants it to continue more than he wants to stop, his nails gritting into the dirt, the rot.

" _Please, fuck me, fuck, me,_ " they both whisper, strung so taut that their toes are curling into The Swarm's shoulders, their hips aching. _Pray to God._

Something so like it they cannot tell the difference.

Prayer is babbling out of His lips, complete belief. He is unsure if real words are even coming out of His mouth.

He just needs- a little- more-

His heart beats.

He laughs, ecstatic, his whole body jackknifed in the middle, coming all over his stomach. There are no words to describe how he laughs, now - like glass shattering: sharp, sudden, crashing to a halt, a bullet train shooting his organs clean out of his body. His heart beats, and beats, a trapped little insect smacking against his rib cage. His hair scratches against the concrete at the back of his nape.

Conventionally, he might be considered alive.

His organs are the inside of a kettle, the hot steaming out of his mouth. The pain sears through every part of his skin better than a branding iron, and somehow, _somehow_ , he is still hard, spitting blood from his teeth and shivering.

Miles imagines the sound he hears now is susurrus, the shushing of The Swarm, and not the sound of his capillaries bursting inside him.

Then something like vertigo twists at the bottom of his stomach. Maybe he misunderstood. Maybe this is not what they meant. His head rolls on the floor, his teeth biting together. He's barely conscious enough to think, now, too tired. There's a smooth rumble underneath his guts, feels like it gorges everything around it.

He's so hot, now. His flesh is scraping off his arms. He opens his mouth and his tongue sloughs out, his teeth dripping with his gums and face - bursting onto the ground. Something has switched his insides for molten rock.

He tries to swallow, but the walls of his oesophagus stick together and come down into his stomach.

Oh- light headed, he thinks, as he rolls onto his back, the leather digging into the juncture of his shoulder and neck, unable to force breath through his lungs.

He momentarily, completely believes He is God, forgetting disbelief in divinity.

He tries to sip at air. The blood looks like saturated black, and it's the only colour He can see for a time.

Yes. This is what they meant. They, for a second, are divine, and then they disappear, shot down the current.

He hears the sound of a song He thinks he remembers, blocks across, and then hears very little, tastes very little, smells very little. He thinks that our body does not really belong to us anymore. We will find someone new. 

 

His hands grow cold. 

 

The blood stops fizzing. 

 

The sun finally comes up.

**Author's Note:**

> excessive blood  
> body horror  
> character death (vague)


End file.
